ROY MUSTANG AND THE CURSE OF THE REDBACK'S REVENGE
by BinaryTales
Summary: Some stories are too embarassing to be included in Roy's official biography. This is one of them, when a moment of poor judgement on a dark night led to a humiliating accident Ed would never let him forget...
1. Chapter 1

ROY MUSTANG AND THE CURSE OF THE RED BACK'S REVENGE. Part 1

A "Crackfic" from the Journals of Roy Mustang

By The Binary Alchemist, 2014

(lyrics inspired by "Redback Spider" by Slim Newton)

_"There was a mean ol' redback spider  
>At the dunny hole last night<br>Too dark to see the bastard  
>But by hell I felt the bite<br>I jumped ten feet up in the air  
>Before i hit the ground<br>But that goddamned redback spider  
>He weren't nowhere to be found!"<em>-traditional western territory outback drinking song

_SOMEWHERE WEST OF THE MIDDLE OF NOWHERE, WESTERN AMESTRIS…_

"You realize I'm going to kill you as soon as they let me out of here, right, Havoc?" Roy's bare toes flexed and curled from under the flimsy cotton exam gown the Fuhrer of Amestris had been bullied into by a Cretan nurse whose biceps were only slightly less beefy than Sig Curtis. "Come to think about it," he mused, "think I'll kill you twice. Once for reporting this to Madman Mandelay and once for the hell I'm going to get from Ed when he finds out you were looking at my ass in the showers. Which reminds me-" a dark brow twitched in irritation, "you still haven't explained to my satisfaction why you were staring at my ass, considering that as far as I am aware it bears no resemblance to a female breast...at least I hope to hell it doesn't."  
>Jean Havoc gnawed on the filter of his unlit cigarette and tried to remember if there were any gods he actually believed in enough to invoke for assistance in times of mortal danger, such as having his ass hairs ignited by his superior officer "Uh...well...you're right, sir. I'm a breast man, red blooded 110 per cent. But..." he rubbed at his goatee and glanced around for the nearest fire extinguisher, "When you bent over for the soap…well, I couldn't take my eyes off it. All big and red and swollen and hard and-and-"<br>A thin blue line of fire poofed into life along the tips of Roy's fingers,, rather like the gas ring on the camp stove for heating billy tea in the western outback. "A man could take that statement any number of ways, Havoc. Choose wisely."  
>Havoc's shaggy blond head drooped in defeat. "I wasn't looking at your your dick, <em>SIR<em>. But, sheesh, white as you are, you had this swelling on your backside and it was as bright red as a goddamn traffic light. I've seen it before in these parts.I'm a country boy, right? Didn't they warn you not to use the shitter or squat in dark around these woods? Shit, this place is crawling with red backs and funnel web spiders, sir! They go after the flies around privies and shitholes, and if they go after YOU instead you gotta get it treated before the venom and bacteria gets in your system or else..."

"Or else what?"

_ka-BOOM!_ The wooden door to ther bivowac tent was booted open and the doorway was eclipsed by a mountain of a Westie with rum on his breath and a mustache Armstrong could do chin ups on. He had a roasted chookie's leg in one hand, dripping in mouthwatering basting sauce that made Roy's stomach grumble with envy. In the other beefy mitt, the intruder brandished a syringe sporting a needle big enough to puncture a car tire.  
>It was Colonel Mandeville 'Mad Man" Mandelay, chief medical officer of the Amestrian armed forces for the West Area. "Or else you become <em>my<em> problem, Mustang. You get to bend over that dainty arse for _me_, Sunny Jim, and I paint a target on your bumcheek and spend the next happy fortnight improvin' on my aim for the dart's league. Oh," he grinned maliciously, "before ya think o' pullin' rank with me as Fuhrer, I sent a telegram to Dr Knox. He's knows your ways, and I've got a writ that says, as your current medical superior I can pull rank and keep you here until you get better. Now then," he twirled the syringe with glee, "Havoc? Bend the old girl over and let's see how many throws it takes to get a bullseye. Think I can get it in one shot and bring home a stuffed toy for the missus?

…TO BE CONTINUED….


	2. Chapter 2

ROY MUSTANG AND THE CURSE OF THE RED BACK'S REVENGE, PART 2

A "CRACKFIC" BY THE BINARY ALCHEMIST 2014

(lyrics adapted from "Red Back Spider" by Slim Newton)

"_Well, the doctor called my feller_  
><em>Told him just where I'd been bit<br>He grabbed the cutthroat razorblade  
>And I nearly had a fit<br>I said don't come up to see me, love  
>Just trust the doctor, please<br>Cause I got a feeling that your cure  
>Is worse than the disease"<em>

"I'm not being admitted. That's final." Black eyes snapped angrily at Jean Havoc. "Give me my shorts."

"Sorry, Chief. Nothing doing. You'll thank me for this, I swear."

There are times in a military officer's lfe when life and death decisions must be made concerning one's fellow soldiers. Havoc was no entomologist, but he'd spent a childhood running half wild on his family farm and had heard his dad say more than once that Mother Nature could, at times, become a Bitch Goddess ready to bite a man's nut's off without the slightest provocation . He knew Mustang had snored with the rest of the officers through the 'dangerous wildlife of the Eastern Desert" lectures. He'd been educated about grey scorpions, sand vipers, the so-called 'camel spiders' that would allegedly crawl into a camel's butthole and eat its way out through its ears. Some fact, lots of fiction. In the end, the deadliest creature Jean Havoc had ever encountered in the field was a big titted working girl with nipples like cherries and the most persistent dose of VD he'd ever faced in his life.

That, however was the East. The Western Outback was something else altogether, where even the goddamn butterflies could knock you off, most likely. "Listen, Chief," Havoc ventured carefully, "you're the big cheese now. I got that. I'm talking friend to friend, because I've known you forever and I don't want anything to happen to you. I know you got a short temper when it comes to red tape and army bullshit. You've never been the sort of lazy dumbfuck who has his subordinates think for him…._right?"_ Mustang's hand was still poking out from under the sheet, waiting for his boxers to be passed over. Maybe Havoc had read the Chief wrong for once. "How long ago did it bite you?"

"Three nights ago."

"Hurt like a mother, didn't it?"

"Don't be an idiot." Mustang snapped his fingers inpatiently for his underwear. Havoc took an involuntary step backwards."I checked myself over the next 48 hours. No sign of tissue necrosis. Nothing turned black and dropped off."

Havoc gave him a strange look. "You were able to check it—right where it-"

"I am considerably more agile than I appear." The Fuhrer lifted his chin with a hint of arrogance and pride. "And I tacked my shaving mirror to the side of my kit bag. No open wound. Nothing to see."

"Not at first, maybe." Havoc looked doubtful. "That's why I'm pretty damn sure it wasn't a funnel web. But", he held up a cautionary finger, "you get an infection from a red back bite and you could end up having half your ass carved off."

"Nonsense. Now," he swung his bare legs over the side of the exam table,"my uniform. Get me out of here before that idiot Westie decides to use me for darts practice. I'll put some antibiotic cream on it if that makes you feel better-"

"No way, Sir. I'm sorry, but that's the way it's gotta be this time."

"Havoc…if you don't get me out of here…I swear I'm going to tell Hawkeye the exact circumstances about when and how you aquired that…ah…shall we say…_unique_…tattoo that you begged me to burn off your-"

"_I don't want you to die."_

"I'm fit. I'm in excellent health."Mustang had reached the end of his patience. "Who ever heard of a grown man dying from a little prick?"

###

Several hundred a year, it turned out, which explained why all new medical personnel were required to make a study of current spider bite patients. And so, before he could make good his escape, Mustang found himself bundled into a wheelchair and transported, not to triage but to what appeared to be a makeshift operating theater. Several dozen chairs had been arranged around a draped exam table. Standing at the head of this contraption was Mad Man Mandelay, his uniform covered with a surgical gown and the tips of his impressive mustache poking out around the sides of his mask.

"Oi! Evenin', ladies!"

_Ladies?_

Roy shot Mandelay a panicked look. His worst fears were confirmed with wink.

" You sods in the back," Mandelay roared to his own men,"knock it off! We got guests here! Watch yer fuckin' language! These fine nurses are the heart an' soul of the 121st Evacuation Squadron. Been helpin' out with the Milos refugees out o' Table City. Since the Cretan government has agreed to allow the Milos to migrate to parts o' the Westies, they've been doin' a fine job savin' lives, especially since the Milos don't have a good goddamn idea what sorta beasties be slinkin' and crawlin' around these parts. An' what better honor for 'em to practice their arts o' healin' and mercy upon the body of Hizzoner Himself, Fuhrer Roy Mustang." Mandelay leaned down and gave Roy a sharp poke with his elbow. "C'mon, boyo," he growled under his rummy breath. "Didn't yer ma teach you to stand up in the presence of a bunch of sheilas?

Teeth grinding, Roy mustered what little dignity he had left and rose to his feet. He snapped off a salute. "I thank you for your care, and I hope to take up _as little_ of your training time here as possible."

Instinctively, Roy executed a short formal bow before Havoc could caution him about the brevity of his current attire.

There was a distinctive chill around his backside, accompanied by an undignified rush of female medical officers who dashed to the back of the room for a better view of their patient. "Right!" Mandelay bellowed. "Now, you'll all have a good chance to get to know Hizzoner in the time he'll be with us." He patted the exam table. "Right, _Sir_. If you'll stretch out face down now, I want our guests to get a good look at the little prick what got you here."

Cold fury blazed in the Fuhrer's eyes. "_Little?_"

Havoc nearly bit his filter tip off and swallowed it. "Not now, Chief…"

"Well, it ain't like the goddamn thing's big enough to _ride_ is it?" Two quick yanks of the gown ties and Roy's hospital attire dropped around his ankles. "The _spider_ _prick_ that got you sidelined here, that is. As for the other one…welllll…Ladies, I'll let you be the judge 'o_ that_, eh?"

Two dozen nurses—and more than a few male orderlies—leaned forward, staring intently at the naked body of their Fuhrer.

"That swelling," sighed one of the nurses. "Never seen one so—"

"—hard it is? And so—"

"—inflamed—"

"I wanna palpate it!"

"No! Me!"

"I outrank you!"

Roy Mustang had spent the past three years in a committed relationship with Edward Elric. For the first time since the death of Maes Hughes, Roy had found a genuine contentment, well spiced with enough uninhibited sex to break plenty of bed slats and sprain more than a few muscles.

They were good together. _Damn_ good.

However, even in the best of relationships, there are personal characteristics that are brought into the union that can aggravate even the most devoted of lovers. Edward's stubbornness, for one thing—and Roy's vanity for another.

He was still relatively young. He was fit. He could be charming as hell when it suited his purpose to be. And he was still resting on his laurels with a reputation as one of the most eligible bachelors in Central when he had, at least to the casual observer, broken a string of hearts all over the Capital.

Now he had been stripped naked and put on display like a side of beef in the butcher's window. Two dozen attractive women—and several male orderlies—were paying so much attention to his cock that the massive red swelling on his ass went completely unnoticed—

-right until Mad Man Mandelay jabbed him in the buttock with an eighteen gauge needle with enough force to change the Fuhrer from a baritone to a tenor. Roy yelped, clearing several feet into the air, tumbling back onto the exam table while clutching at his backside, swallowing back some of the vilest curses he could think of—at least while there were stars bursting behind his visual field.

Mandelay leaned in close, his breath strong enough to make Roy's head swim. "Ah, ah, Sunny Jim! Remember which side you're on. Figured you needed a _good hard prick_ to keep your mind of the sheilas. Did it work?"

Roy's Fuhrerhood had been close to rising and bowing in introduction to its admirers. Now it had slunk for cover and he could have sworn his balls had retreated half-way up his neck. "Apparently," he hissed back. "Possibly _permanently…."_

TO BE CONTINUED…


	3. Chapter 3

ROY MUSTANG AND THE CURSE OF THE REDBACK'S REVENGE, PART 3

A ROY/ED "CRACKFIC" BY THE BINARY ALCHEMIST 2014

(LYRICS ADAPTED FROM "REDBACK SPIDER" BY SLIM NEWTON)

"_I can't lie down, I can't sit up—I don't know what to do_

_All the nurses think it's funny, but that's not my point of view_

_I tell you, it's embarrassing, and that's to say the least_

'_Cause I'm too damn sick to eat a bite—but that spider had a feast!_

_There was a goddamn red back spider_

_At the dunny hole last night_

_I couldn't see him in the dark, but by hell, I felt him bite_

_And now I'm stuck in hospital, my luck has gone to shit_

'_Cause the goddamn red back spider pricked me on my manly bits!"_

_IN A RUSTIC TAVERN IN PIEDMONTE, AERUGO—SOMEHWERE NEAR THE CRETAN BORDER…_

"What do you call this?"

"_Bagna caulda, _Professore Elric_."_

Ed wiped the garlicky oil off his fingers with a crust of rustic bread and then popped it into his mouth. "I call it awesome. Seriously, I've been all over Aerugo and nobody ever served me this—not even at Claudio's palace."

"It is a specialty of our region. It is considered too…how you say? It is peasant food. "

Ed regarded the simmering dish of virgin olive oil, fragrant with garlic and herbs, anchovies and butter, offered on a platter with piles of fire-roasted vegetables and fresh bread for dipping. "It's good enough for the President of Amestris. Bet Roy would fight me for it. Can I get a recipe?"

The waiter looked startled. "You mean this? I can provide it but—how you say, to write it in your language might be—not so good."

Ed waved off the objections with a cheerful grin, topping off his glass of wine and reaching for a wedge of roasted cauliflower. "You let Chef Ramsay worry about that. And to think, Mom always had to fight me to make me eat my vegetables. "

The waiter bowed and nodded towards the menu chalked on the wall. "And for your entrée, Professore?"

"I'll have the pasta agnolotti. And I really don't think I'll have room for dessert, so just bring me a coffee—no, wait. Wrap me up a dozen of those _gianduoitto_ chocolates with the roasted hazelnuts, will you? Think I'll send 'em to Roy when the military courier swings through tonight. "Cocking his head towards the discarded newspaper on the table beside him, Ed began to chuckle. "Front page says he's over in the Western outback this week after a visit to Table City. Don't imagine he's eating half as good as I am tonight!"

_WARD THREE, WESTERN OUTBACK FIELD HOSPITAL_

_ "Snot."_

"Chief?"

"They're feeding me snot again, Havoc." A tin fork poked cautiously at a greasy slab of some grayish protein that, thankfully, did not poke back. "Snot over something _dead_. I can't identify it. That's becoming a pattern here, and I don't like it worth a damn. Unidentified dead protein, slathered in snot, powdered potatoes and dried carrots and peas that must have been foraged from the field rations back when my father was a cavalry officer serving in these parts." With a sigh, he stopped jabbing at his main course and reached for his tea instead. A large mouthful informed him that this was the dreaded 'billy tea' of the Westies—a rough, acrid brew made in the field from bits snapped off local brushwood. It had enough caffeine to give a cadaver a heart attack, though, which explained why the Amestrian soldiers in the West area had adopted it. "My father died out here. Did you know that, Havoc? Border skirmish. Somebody identified him as an alchemist, so they shot him off his horse and then the Cretan's hacked off his hands with his own saber to keep him from transmuting. And then," he grimaced and took another sip of tea, "years later, his only son—the goddamned Fuhrer of Amestris-goes out to relieve himself, gets bitten on the ass and is being poisoned by snot gravy and bad tea. I hope you can appreciate the irony, because I'm damned if I can."

He shoved the table tray away and rolled onto his side, making a face. "Get rid of it. Just the smell of it makes me sick. See if you can find me some damn coffee and maybe a sandwich…providing it's got something between the bread that can be identified without the help of a coroner."

Mustang didn't look good. His pale features were flushed and sweaty and he ached all over. What really had Havoc worried was the livid swelling on the site of the bite, which was now nearly as large as a fist. The Chief wasn't eating, wasn't resting and the wound wasn't improving. If things didn't get better in a hurry-

###

"What's the matter with the old hag?" Mandalay roared. "Too fussy to eat her meat and now she wants her puddin'? Well, if ya don't eat your meat, ya can't have any puddin'!"

Havoc sighed. "I know, and I'm sorry….you know how it is. But he does outrank all of us, sir. All he wants is…I don't know…maybe some different kind of grub—and no gravy. Something fresh? Can we do that?"

"Oh, so Her Nibs wants some _grub_, does she?" The end of Mad Man's mustachios quivered like little antennae, broadcasting strong signals of a shitstorm on the horizon to Havoc's internal receiver. "Tell Mustang not to get her pretty silk panties in a twist. I'll see what I can do."

###

"You call Hawkeye," Roy mumbled, "and I swear to god I'll-" Temperature rising, the Fuhrer tossed and turned miserably.

"You think she's suddenly forgotten to read?" Havoc dabbed at his superior's forehead with a towel full of cracked ice. "It's gonna be in the papers tomorrow. You've been in here three days, and you know as well as I do you can't take a shit as Commander in Chief without everybody knowing about it."

"She'll drive me crazy," Roy snapped back. "You know how she gets whenever I get sick or wounded. She means well, I know," he added, sinking back against the pillows. "But I'm not an idiot. I'm not a child, and frankly, if I have to have someone look after me, I'd rather it be you or Ed—"

"—who will be tearing ass down here as soon as he finds out—"

"—and giving me hell for not telling him about that fucking spider—"

"Chief," Havoc threw up his hands in frustration, "what do you want me to do? People give a damn about you and you're making it hard as hell to take care of you. You want to get out of here. Well, _tough shit_. You're in bad shape and even though they're assholes, Mandalay and his crew know how to treat this thing. I know you don't like all the attention from the 121st Evac nurses—"

"—bet _you_ wish you were the one with two dozen women fighting to give you a bed bath and rub lotion on you so you don't get bed sores—like I've ever heard of a man getting bed sores on his—"

_BOOM!_

Colonel Mandeville "Mad Man" Mandalay booted the door open, his hands gripping what appeared to be a tin mess tray with a cover over it. The largish Cretan nurse followed close on his boot heels, looking highly pissed about something. Mustang glared and sniffed. He couldn't identify the odor but it sure as hell wasn't snot gravy over cold boiled water buffalo. "All right, _Madam_. I listened to Havoc here and got you some fresh local food. No field rations. No feckin' gravy. Everything's so fresh it's still moving."

The tin lid was twitched aside. True to his word, the entrée was still moving all right.

Havoc nearly threw up in his mouth, while Roy hauled himself upright and confronted the Colonel with cool contempt. "I fail to see the humor, _Mandalay_."

"Fresh grub, you said. That's what I got'cher."

"I can see that." Roy jabbed his fingers into the brimming bowl, hooking out a pale, squirming…_thing…_nearly as long as his index finger. "And these are?"

"_Witchetty grubs_." The offending entrée attempted to wriggle out of the bowl. The Cretan nurse knocked the creature back in with a flick of her finger. "Women o' the Outback West gather 'em. Use 'em for local folk medicine, but most times like t'eat 'em raw. Oh, and these here are a couple of fresh senna leaves. Keeps you reg'lar. You don't keep reg'lar, and we gotta get out the old bag-and-nozzle an' give ya a couple liters of warm water up the backside—although ladies like you might enjoy that. Have to find a nozzle big enough that won't fall out o' that overused bunghole you got down there."

"With all due respect—" Havoc protested, "you can't feed the Fuhrer those—"

"—with all due respect, _Havoc_—" Mandalay raised a threatening fist "-shut yer goddamn pie hole. Makes me sick, you pampered Central and Eastern boys. No guts. No balls. Whining' like little sheilas when you don't get your way. Your man Mustang was stupid, get it? Knew better but didn't _do_ better. Got hisself bit and now he's in a bad way he's stampin' his itty bitty bootsies and tryin' to tell me how to run my feckin' hospital. Now," his grey eyes took on an odd, menacing shimmer, "you listen to me, you jumped up little pissrag. No more shite from you, mate. No more shite from Miss Mustang. Shut the feck up, do as I say or get out and _die._ Because that's where your man is headin', Havoc. Infection's getting' into his blood. I can help him fight this but it's gonna be a battle." His furious gaze turned to Mustang. "You got anything to say to me, Mustang?"

"Yeah." Dark eyes locked onto Mandalay's, Roy grasped the squirming creature by the head and popped it in his mouth, chewing thoughtfully as Havoc retched into the wastebasket.

"Get me some goddamn pepper sauce. These things are bland as hell."

…TO BE CONTINUED


End file.
